Page 77 of Not Exactly Mr. Darcy
He explained about the different types of lettuce, radishes, onions, and Chinese broccoli and cabbages, then listened as the man offered his own advice about keeping bugs away.
“You sound like you’ve had some experience.”
“Oh, I have.” The man went on to say he’d been involved in a community garden club before he’d moved in with his daughter at the next village along. “She has a small patch, but it’s not nearly as much as I’d like.”
Again, that inkling stirred. Was this another of those moments Tobias had recently prayed about? That God would place people in their path who could bless them, and they could bless.
He soon learned more of the man’s story. Richard was a widower, lonely, looking for ways to connect as he had when he’d lived in London. “But when my wife died—she was the social one—I felt lost. But if I could come help here, then that would really help.”
By the end of that conversation, he had Richard’s phone number and had arranged to meet next week when they could discuss more about what was involved.
“We can’t pay you, of course,” Liam warned.
“Nobody can these days. But that doesn’t matter. It would help a lot to think I’ve got something to do rather than sit in front of the telly, doing crosswords. Thank you, Liam. And don’t worry.” He tapped the side of his nose. “Your secret is safe with me.”
Liam shook his hand, wondering about the wisdom of having shared his identity. But if his daughter ran the post office in the next village, she was probably already clued in to who “Liam Browne” actually was.
And maybe it was time to be owning that more widely. For the first time in a long time, he could see the benefits of reaching out, of extending a hand to help, not just staying tightly knotted in his own world, growing increasingly gnarled and small.
He had Liv to thank for it. Miss Olivia Bennett, the whirling dervish of a worker, whose bright smiles and sunny demeanour lightened each day. He thanked God for her. He might’ve only known her for a few weeks, but it felt like she’d been part of the life of Hartbury Hall forever.
He didn’t see her when he called in at the office during lunch, although he did see that George was kept busy in the gift shop. Marge too was scrambling to keep up with the hot beef sandwiches, and the queues for the coffee and ice cream vans were long. Which was good. They were signs that more money would come in.
As more visitors meant more chances of being seen, he spent the afternoon out in the parkland, dealing with several fallen branches, using the tractor to drag the largest ones from the public footpath. The laws of England gave the public access to walk on certain parts of private land, which meant landowners were responsible for keeping it accessible. He photographed areas that were extra rutted and would need attention to be levelled out, so those using wheelchairs or wielding pushchairs could get around.
The sun was lower by the time he returned to the gardens. They closed at five, the house at four, but there were still some people milling about the gift shop. He stopped in the doorway and gave George, behind the counter, a thumbs-up, then hurried to the back steps and inside his private domain.
Of course he was grateful today had gone well. But he’d forgotten what it was like to have people about. Noise. Shrieks. Dogs barking that weren’t CeeCee. Poor thing, cooped up all day.
After leashing her and taking her outside, he returned and went into the front office, where Liv sat, frowning at large signs on the table.
She glanced up as he came in, the relief on her face almost comical. “Thank goodness you’re here.”
His chest puffed out a little wider. Okay, he was happy to be her hero. Even if it felt like he’d barely spoken to her all week. Maybe now was his time to shine. “What’s the problem?”
“It’s Patricia,” she whispered, gesturing for him to shut the door. “She just dropped this off, and I don’t think she listened to a word I said. Look!”
He’d always thought Veronica’s purple-and-pink posters had a schoolgirl look to them, but that was something he could put down to quaintly charming. This, professional as it was, black words on white cardboard, looked stark and serious, like something seen at a hospital.
She pointed to the heading. “She hasn’t used the fonts I requested. I sent her an email detailing the colours and fonts we’re trying to use, and she’s gone and done her own thing.”
“Did you mention this to her?”
“Yes. But she said she thought it looked much better this way.”
“So what did you do?”
“I thanked her for her time, then said we would continue with the current posters until we had new ones in the style we’re trying to promote.”
“Good for you.”
“I know. I felt like I was being brave saying that, because you should’ve seen the look she gave me.” She shuddered.
“Hey, I’m sure it wasn’t that bad.”
“It was. She then told me how much she had spent on doing this, right down to calculating the last cent—”
“Penny,” he corrected automatically.
